


after this, the rest is all bullshit!

by mismatched (miscalculated)



Series: the things that [3]
Category: SEVENTEEN (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Rock Band, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Dirty Talk, Gratuitous use of hyung, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Kinda, Kinda Kinky, M/M, Otter in a Collar, Rockstar!Chan, Rough Sex, Size Kink, Slight Age Difference, Slight age difference kink, Slut Shaming, an oppa, pining chan
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-10
Updated: 2020-07-10
Packaged: 2021-03-04 18:14:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,295
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25180732
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/miscalculated/pseuds/mismatched
Summary: Chan doesn’t look away, just stares into Seungcheol’s soul as his eyes roam over Chan’s smudged makeup, his pale, spit-slick mouth. And — this could be it. This could be Chan’s persistence coming to fruition, could be Chan ending the night with Seungcheol as his prize, in his bed and sighing his name like this is what he’s always wanted. Like he’s imagined fucking Chan one too many times to count, and yet his expectation never came close to reality. To eat and be eaten, tonight and beyond.*Chan is a rockstar and Seungcheol is the engineering student of his dreams.
Relationships: Choi Seungcheol | S.Coups/Lee Chan | Dino
Series: the things that [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1707742
Comments: 26
Kudos: 242





	after this, the rest is all bullshit!

**Author's Note:**

> howdy. 
> 
> song title is from song 'bullshit' by mindless self indulgence. (their music is not PC, so warning if you decide to search them.) 
> 
> i did it. expanded on rockstar!chan because i couldn't stop thinking about it. and no, you do **not** need to read the other fics in this collection to understand this one. it's in the same universe, but it can stand alone just fine! 
> 
> big thanks to halfpastwo (V, Villanelle) for reading this over for me and reassuring me. another fic was born with your help!
> 
> and, to mel. hi. fancy seeing you here. i pray you enjoy this, because you're 90% of the reason it was born. love ya.
> 
> i hope you guys enjoy, and kudos/feedback keeps me going! [heart emoji]

Chan’s crouched on the gravel behind _The Social Venue_ , smoking a cigarette, when Hyejin finds him. He tried to sneak out discreetly after their four-song set, but of course if anybody has Chan Intuition, it’s his (platonic) life partner, fellow roommate and _The Future_ ’s drummer Ahn Hyejin. Fuck. He doesn’t even bother to try to hide his smoke as she crouches down beside him, just continues to squint at the building sitting on the other side of the parking lot, smoke furling from between his lips and up into the humid, night air. 

She smells like lavender, sweat, liquor. Typical for a long night spent performing — minus the lavender. That’s all her. 

“Didn’t wanna play with your girls?” Hyejin tries, having mercy on his soul and choosing to not berate him for his shitty smoking habit. “They’re looking for you backstage. Word on the street is that you told Sejeong you’d go to the afterparty with her. That true?” 

Chan takes another slow drag to give himself a chance to think of how to respond to this. Because the truth is that going to an afterparty is the last fucking thing he wants to do right now. Especially with chicks that drape themselves over him, everyone trying to earn their chance at feeling his skin just to earn bragging rights when he quote-unquote ‘makes it big’. On a good day — night — sure, he loves being surrounded by fans and friends and his bandmates, thrives in dark, cramped venues with his music blasting through their microphones. Then, when his band finishes their set and takes off, the best part about a performance night is that he gets to party and fuck and pass out somewhere.

But he doesn’t want to do that tonight. He had Hyejin carefully line his lids with her eyeliner, surround his eyes with smoky grey and silver like a halo; and he wanted to show off his hard-earned waist with a crop top, matching jeans leaving nothing to the imagination. From mid-thigh to right above his ankles there are gaping holes in both legs. For good reason. For — 

“You’re pissed Seungcheol didn’t come,” Hyejin says. It’s not a question. 

Chan still doesn’t look over at her. He knows what he’s going to see. Pity. He fucking hates that, hates how easily she can peel him open and stare into his soul. “Not pissed,” he finally says. His voice is hoarse from one too many cigarettes. He flicks ash onto the gravel between his boots. “A little sad, yeah.” He’d put on his best outfit and everything. And now he looks like a fucking lovesick idiot. 

No. Whatever. It’s not love. Chan’s been there, done that; monogamy isn’t for him. Nor is polyamory. Okay — nothing. He doesn’t want anything. Zero expectations, zero strings attached, just easy, frequent sex. That’s something he’s wanted from Choi Seungcheol for so long now, the hottest fucking engineering major he’s seen yet — and he’s seen a decent bit of engineering majors. And, well, Seungcheol hasn’t exactly been available, for various reasons. One important reason was the fact that Chan was freshly twenty when he met Seungcheol at a mutual friend’s house party.

Twenty, his band _The Future_ months away from their debut on some Hongdae street plaza, and his first year in university. Despite his age, Chan’s never been shy or self conscious about himself; he hit the ground running once matriculated, flirtatious and exuberant and brazen with anyone he thought was cute. Chan spent that house party prancing around, drunk and horny and wearing his pink lip-tint in hopes of pulling a third or fourth year purely for bragging rights (turns out he’s not so different from his groupies after all). 

That’s when Seungcheol fell into his lap. Metaphorically. In reality, Seungcheol rebuffed Chan’s attempts to take him upstairs so he could suck his dick in the first room he saw. He was nice about it, of course, because Seungcheol is a fucking sweetheart with a heart of gold and a massive cock (sweatpants. Chan’s seen him in sweatpants). But Chan saw that glimmer in his eyes when Seungcheol looked down at Chan, who’d pranced up to ask him what beer he was drinking and where to find some more — which he and Seungcheol both knew Chan didn’t give a shit about. Chan had his kittenish smirk on, heavy-lidded and bold with a hand pressed to the crook of Seungcheol’s elbow. 

Chan hates to admit that he has a Thing for guys that dress like assholes. And like an asshole Seungcheol dressed, at complete odds with his personality, Chan quickly discovered. Snapback turned backwards, engineering club sweatshirt on, blue jeans with holes in the knees and some sneakers that matched the grey color to his shirt. Seungcheol was standing by the basement’s pool table with a beer in his hand and enough natural charisma to call attention to himself even if he wasn’t speaking. 

Then — the glint. Seungcheol ended up slipping off from his group of third-year friends to spend the rest of the night with Chan, dancing or standing in a corner or sitting on the basement couch, Chan practically on his lap as he giggled and watched Seungcheol’s tauntingly full lips form words that Chan only half paid attention to.

Unfortunately, though, all good things must come to an end; and this is how it went: Chan took the opportunity during a lapse in conversation to toss his legs over Seungcheol’s, leaning forward to plant a gentle kiss to the corner of that mouth. God, that mouth. Seungcheol gave him false hope, reciprocating and tilting his head to allow Chan easier access to nip at his bottom lip and lick it better. Seungcheol had a palm holding him at the waist, the rap music was deafening, and Chan’s head was swimming with lust and one too many shots. 

The point is that this was the perfect formula to find himself sucking Seungcheol’s massive fucking dick in a closet or a bathroom or — fuck it — the _backyard_ , or something. But Seungcheol decided to be the morally righteous shithead that Chan now knows him as; he broke away from Chan’s persistent kiss to ask him, “What year are you?” His blown pupils told another very obvious, very traitorous story. 

Chan was legal. Chan _is_ legal. The law said that he was an adult that could drink and go to university and decide what he wants to do with the rest of his life in four, short years. So Chan didn’t think to lie about his age in order to get skull-fucked and lose his voice for a week straight. He shamelessly told Seungcheol, “First year,” then leaned back in to feel those lips against his again. 

Lips that Seungcheol promptly dodged, a palm coming up to hold Chan away by his chest. “Woah,” Seungcheol said with an incredulous laugh. Chan blinked slowly at him, confused as to why the fuck he wanted to stop kissing as if he wasn’t showing interest the entire night. “The semester just started… how old are you?” 

Yeah. Chan said he was twenty. Yeah. Seungcheol belted out another _woah!_ , removed Chan from his lap, and scooted away like a child caught with his hand in the cookie jar before dinner. “Twenty?” he parroted, one eyebrow nearly up to his hairline. “Uh. Sorry, but — but, like. You’re too young for me?” 

Chan gaped at him. “Twenty is too young?” 

“I’m twenty four, Chan,” Seungcheol explained. As if that meant something to Chan. It didn’t. 

“Okay? We’re both adults—“ 

Seungcheol stood up from the couch, and Chan immediately stopped talking to watch him go. And Seungcheol had the audacity to look sheepish, embarrassed, a disposition very unlike the outfit he donned. His thick eyebrows inched closer together when he told Chan, “I don’t feel comfortable with this. You’re too young for me… I’m sorry.” He awkwardly rubbed the condensation from his beer onto his sweatshirt; Chan followed the movement with his eyes. “But we can hang out, maybe? You seem like a cool kid.” 

Cool kid. Kid. Way to twist the knife in his wound. Chan pretended to believe his offer to ‘hang out’, forced his lips to quirk into a smile — lips that lost some of its color after Seungcheol had kissed it away — and nodded. “Sure, hyung, I’d like that.” He didn’t like that. 

But little did Chan know, Seungcheol was serious about hanging out. Being friends. He quickly learned that Seungcheol had a lot of friends, from every walk of life, and his party guests were a testament to that. Albeit hurt and mortified at being rejected like that (only because of his age, though, which meant he still had a chance. Maybe. Maybe? Or he’d always be too young for Seungcheol; at the time he didn’t know that for certain), Chan continued to keep in contact with Seungcheol during his first year. 

Seungcheol helped him get his footing, helped him understand how different university was from high school. Then, Chan declared his major as mathematics, branched away from Seungcheol and his orbiters like a baby bird taking flight, and his band, _The Future_ , was born from Chan’s persistence — and from Hyejin, the drummer he’s known since he was a teenager working at his dad’s dance studio. 

There’ve been many close calls. Seungcheol often came to his band’s performances with his friends in tow — as desperate for _The Future_ to take off as Chan and his bandmates — because Seungcheol’s a walking contradiction, so sweet and tender and caring despite the fact that he dresses like a jock and hosts an endless stream of parties. So the Walking Contradiction often came to the afterparties, either thrown at his bandmates’ Wonwoo and Jun’s apartment, at his own, or at a friend’s place. 

Close call number one: Chan remembers the one party where he was tipsy, Seungcheol was closer to drunk, and they couldn’t help but gravitate to one another. Chan was his usual, handsy self and Seungcheol was receptive but never initiated anything himself. Both shameless with liquor in him and shameless when sober, Chan crowded Seungcheol against the living room wall and leaned up to press his mouth to his ear, said, “I need to go pee. Can you help me find the bathroom?” 

Come on. Come fucking _on_. They both knew what this was. Seungcheol had that same dark, blown glint in his eyes as Chan grabbed him by the hand and led him down random hallways until they found the restroom. And Seungcheol was pliant when Chan tugged him inside, shut the door behind them, and immediately had Seungcheol up against the door, his painted fingernails digging into Seungcheol’s waist, tongue in his mouth. 

“Chan, _shit_ ,” Seungcheol gasped into the kiss, and this was a breathless, well-fucked noise that shot straight down to Chan’s dick. 

He wanted this. Wanted this with his entire soul. He wanted — “Yeah,” Chan gasped in return. He had his lips to Seungcheol’s, breathing in his air, said, “Want it. Want you to fuck me, hyung. Wanna suck your cock.” 

Seungcheol’s responding groan was more than enough consent for Chan; he sucked Seungcheol’s perfect fucking bottom lip into his mouth as he palmed at his sweatpants-clad dick. Sweatpants that left nothing to the imagination. Not like Chan’s skin-tight jeans were any more decent… but Chan had a man to pull, and he knew if he didn’t succeed he’d have no one to blame but himself. 

The music was barely muted by the door that separated them from the rest of the party; Chan could feel each beat deep in his chest, could feel Seungcheol’s groans between his legs. Which meant he liked it. Liked the dirty talk. Liked Chan pumping at his dick as if desperate for it. 

And he was.

Chan could do dirty talk. In fact, he loved it, knew his sexual partners loved it, too. So he persisted, and in between kisses he whined, “You’re so fucking _big_ , hyung. I want you inside of me. Want you to bend me over that sink and fuck me hard. _Hyung_.”

But. Again, all good things must come to an end. Despite the fact that Seungcheol was obviously loving this; despite the fact that Seungcheol was hard as a rock in Chan’s tiny hand; despite the fact that Seungcheol was outright moaning now, head knocked back as Chan begged him to ravish him, to, “treat me like your whore, ‘m yours, all yours,” Seungcheol didn’t relent. He seemed to return from his pleasure-addled mind and back into reality, where his dongsaeng — the ‘kid’ that wore nothing but black and silver and the occasional red, that kept his eyes lined and mouth pink, that sang as the lead singer of a band he helped to grow — was groping him in the bathroom of a mutual friend’s afterparty. 

Chan had whiplash at how quickly Seungcheol went from pliant and willing to spooked out of his mind. And he swore the vodka and music had his head spinning, his eyes blurred with cotton-white, when Seungcheol removed him from his cock and blurted a rushed, “I’m sorry,” before fumbling with the door handle and escaping. 

Leaving Chan there. Alone, confused, horny, _mad_. 

That continued to happen every once in awhile, whenever Seungcheol decided to come out and Chan couldn’t make himself stay away. There were heated makeout sessions in the back of a club, flirtatious giggling as Chan crawled into Seungcheol’s lap at bars and Seungcheol allowed Chan to grab at him a little before he pulled away and returned to the safety of his same-aged friends. Nothing major. The next day they were pals again. The friendly hyung that stared at Chan with eyes eclipsed by his pupils; the dongsaeng that had no shame in trying to get laid. 

Then, flash forward to second year. Chan’s second year. He’s twenty-one, living a fucking dream with a second phone filled to the brim with booty calls, bandmates that he wouldn’t trade for the world, popularity in the local band scene. Everything he’s wanted since before he matriculated. Yet. 

Yet Seungcheol texted him earlier that evening that he couldn’t make it, and Chan wore his fucking black crop top and fashionably ripped jeans that cost an arm and a leg (but Chan can afford it now that he’s performing at venues regularly and earning more than half of the ticket sales) for a man that _never showed up_ . And it’s all because he’s still licking his wounds from a messy breakup that happened _months_ ago. 

Yeah. Seungcheol’s had a girlfriend for the past half year. And — what-fucking-ever. They’re no longer together, thank god, but Seungcheol is a hunk of a man with way too many emotions, and sometimes he still mopes around about it. Her. Which essentially means that Chan doesn’t exist. 

He should give up. He should’ve given up the night Seungcheol went _woah!_ and hopped up like Chan was boiling water ready to pour over. 

Except _giving up_ isn’t in his vocabulary. If it were, he would’ve never convinced shy little beanpole Jeon Wonwoo to join his band as their bassist. Nor would he have been able to drag Wonwoo’s roommate, electric guitarist Wen Junhui, to join them, either. Dedication got him, _them_ , to where they are today. So Chan refuses to fold. 

“Do you think I can pull him this year?” Chan asks. He takes a final drag of his cigarette, then puts it out in the gravel, flicks it away. 

Hyejin immediately picks it up with two fingers and stands to toss the butt in the appropriate place before returning to crouch beside him. She’s wearing her dark red mini dress, which means her panties are completely out, but she makes no moves to make herself decent; no one’s out there but them, anyway. “You’re something else, Otter,” she laughs. “I can’t believe this crush has gone on for so long. He is _so_ unlike the other guys you fuck.” Also known as: Seungcheol doesn’t wear a single article of black clothing, and Chan’s history of fucking black leather-clad men in every place imaginable precedes him. 

“I think,” Chan says on an exhale. He fixes a hard gaze across the parking lot. “If I can fuck him _one_ time, I’ll be able to get him out of my system.” 

Hyejin looks very amused, very much doubtful. “You sure about that?” 

“Depends,” Chan says. “On whether I can get him to put me in a headlock with those massive biceps.” 

She barks a laugh at this, head knocking back. Her black lipstick is smudged on the corners of her mouth, but it’s a look that works for her. The messy, free-spirited musician. “You’re far gone. _Far_. Dickmatized and he hasn’t even let you see it.” 

Chan smirks, shifts his stare down to the rocks sitting at the tip of his pointed boots. “ _Yet_ . Shit needs to change this summer or else I’m gonna go insane, noona. _Insane_.” 

“Too late for that,” Hyejin nudges him with her elbow. “Rockstar Lee Chan chasing dick instead of _being_ chased? We lost ya.” Then she’s standing up, winces as her knees crack. “‘M getting old.” She frowns at Chan when he snorts. “Anyway. Wanna go back to ours? Listen to some good ‘ol Crying Nut and smoke that blunt we forgot about?” 

He’s manifesting it. It’s going to happen. Lee Chan gets what Lee Chan wants — and this time it’s a man. Next year? Who knows. 

“Sounds like a plan,” Chan says. He stands up, has Hyejin snap a few pictures of his outfit for Instagram before they amble back inside to find the others. 

🎸

Chan expects Hyejin or Wonwoo to find him sitting on the curb down the street from the plaza, but it’s Seungcheol that materializes through a group of girls, goes to immediately sit down next to him. It’s the night of _The Future_ ’s debut, and instead of helping his bandmates pack their instruments back into Hyejin’s van, Chan’s got his head ducked, smoldering cigarette hanging loosely from between his lips, mascara running from sweat and tears. Hongdae’s often loud and bustling, with tourists and university students alike; loud, and yet Chan can still hear that voice as if standing in an empty practice room, the _you didn’t do good enough, you didn’t practice hard enough, you let your friends and bandmates down, you’ve embarrassed yourself in front of Seungcheol and now he’s —_

“You were incredible tonight,” Seungcheol says, surrounding chatter and car engines muting some words. “I knew you’d kill it, but definitely not like _that_. Your streams are gonna triple.” 

_He’s just saying that to make you feel better. He saw you walk away and wants to comfort you._

Chan removes the cigarette from his lips, eyes still trained dead ahead, across the street. “You don’t have to lie to me, hyung. I’m a big boy. I can take it.” The best and most frustrating part about Seungcheol is his nurturing disposition. Always wanting to protect, take care of somebody. Chan’s not special, just another person that Seungcheol took under his wing. 

Nurturing and so cute. So, so cute. Especially tonight, with his hair fluffy, colored a deep brown, lashes long, striped white tee clinging to his fit body. Fuck. Chan’s going to start bawling again, and this time it’ll be from sitting _right next_ to someone that doesn’t see him as anything other than a little brother, the only someone he’s pursued that hasn’t given in. 

“Lie?” The confusion to his tone is heard even through the noises of a busy city. “You were. Your voice is amazing. Everyone loved it…” He pauses. Then, a hand coming to grip Chan’s bare knee, he says, “Why do you think I’d lie to you about that?” 

The warmth of his palm could liquefy Chan’s skin, peel the muscle and fat right off the bone. Again, he thinks of that cookie jar, an unwavering inclination to take, take, take, even when he couldn’t and shouldn’t. Starved. 

Chan answers with another very slow drag of his cigarette. He can feel Seungcheol staring resolutely at the profile of his face. The fluorescent lights of store signs burn colors into Chan’s cornea. 

Seungcheol doesn’t speak again until he receives any sign that Chan’s heard his question, a sign that presents in a single shoulder shrug. 

The scorching hot hand on Chan’s knee glides up to his cheek. A thumb rubs away dried rivulets of mascara, only to smudge it across Chan’s cheekbone. Seungcheol inches closer, more and more until their bent legs are pressed against one another. 

Chan wants nothing more than to toss his cigarette and eat him alive. 

“You’re way too hard on yourself. Everyone was amazed at how professional you guys sound; m’friends kept asking me how I know such a talented person.” 

Chan huffs a laugh of disbelief. “Sure.” 

“ _Really_.” Seungcheol rubs at his cheek again, and this time Chan dares himself to turn his head and look. And — fucking gorgeous. A sight he wants to brand behind his eyelids, let it lull him to peaceful sleep: Seungcheol before a backdrop of Hongdae’s blinding lights, yellows and greens and blues blurs of cotton, two kaleidoscopes in each of Seungcheol’s pupils. “I wouldn’t lie to you.” 

If it’s not perfect, it’s nothing. Chan’s nothing. Nothing and Seungcheol is everything, handsome and cavity sweet and gentle. He cradles Chan’s emotions like they’re precious, stares at him like he, too, wants to eat Chan alive. Walking contradiction. 

Chan licks the rest of his pink gloss away from his bottom lip. He watches Seungcheol watch his tongue until it returns to Chan’s mouth. “Thank you,” he bites out. No way Seungcheol’s telling the truth after listening to his voice crack during the final chorus, where he finishes the song off in a scream. No way he missed that; Chan may be young(er), but he isn’t stupid. 

Seungcheol isn’t either. Those long-lashed, doe eyes rise back up to Chan’s. “You still don’t believe me. How can I prove to you I’m being honest?” 

“By being honest,” Chan says. He crushes his cigarette on the curb without looking away. 

This earns Chan a laugh. “Good thing I’ve already done that. You believe me now?” 

“I didn’t hear you say anything. What am I believing?” Chan can’t help the upwards quirk to his mouth, endeared by Seungcheol’s crinkly eyes and giggle. (He _giggles_ . He has biceps like those and _giggles_. God brought this man to Chan to torture him, and it’s working.) 

Seungcheol lowers his hand from Chan’s cheek, but Chan catches it mid-descent and takes it into both of his own. Seungcheol doesn’t stir, continues to stare as he answers, “Your performance was incredible. You’re a great singer. You looked like a rockstar.” 

Chan has to bite the insides of his cheeks to stop from grinning like a dumb ass. “Uh huh? What else?” 

“You’ve got yourself a bunch of fangirls,” Seungcheol continues. 

“Did I get you, too?” 

Seungcheol’s lips remain parted on unsaid words. Chan doesn’t look away, just stares into Seungcheol’s soul as his eyes roam over Chan’s smudged makeup, his pale, spit-slick mouth. And — this could be it. This could be Chan’s persistence coming to fruition, could be Chan ending the night with Seungcheol as his prize, in his bed and sighing his name like this is what he’s always wanted. Like he’s imagined fucking Chan one too many times to count, and yet his expectation never came close to reality. To eat and be eaten, tonight and beyond. 

“Chan.” A gentle noise. A crumbling resolve. 

Chan licks his lips again. Seungcheol can’t help himself, follows with his eyes. “Hyung. Come back with me.” 

The uneasy furrow to Seungcheol’s eyebrows reminds Chan of the day he left him frustrated in some stranger’s bathroom. And. He refuses to repeat that, not when he’s upset with himself and also still kinda upset with Seungcheol and _famished_. He’s going full throttle. 

Seungcheol doesn’t respond right away. He gapes uselessly for a few, tense seconds — the most nerve-racking ten seconds of Chan’s life, not including his band’s debut — before he seems to come to a decision and pries his hand from Chan’s. “You’re too young.” 

Nope. Not this shit again. “Twenty is a man, hyung—“ 

“Not mentally it isn’t,” Seungcheol argues. “And not really physically, either. I’m not in the business of —“ 

Chan snatches Seungcheol’s hand back. Seungcheol flinches, but doesn’t try to stop him. “Then make me a man. Want you to make me a man. Need your coc—“ 

“ _Chan_ ,” Seungcheol whimpers. 

“You want it, too,” Chan insists. He grips Seungcheol’s hand tighter, refusing to let go even as it burns him. “You just told me you don’t lie. You want me, too. Right?” 

No response. Seungcheol is frozen in place, and, honestly, that says enough. Everything. Fuck being friends, fuck dancing around one another like they’re playing the most sexually frustrating game on planet earth. What Chan wants, Chan gets, and he wants, god, he’s never wanted another person more; for the first time ever, he has to chase. And, fuck it, he’ll chase. If it means Seungcheol will stop this shit, he’ll do it, he’ll — 

“Not,” Seungcheol starts. Stops. Frowns. Squirms around. “Not now. Not while you’re still— yeah.” 

Chan can feel him trembling between his palms. “While I’m still… twenty?” 

Hesitation. Then, “Right. And a first year.” 

“Will you fuck me if I’m twenty-one?” 

Seungcheol’s ears go aflame. Averting his eyes to somewhere over Chan’s shoulder, he mumbles, “Chan, Jesus. Please don’t say it that way… But, um. Yeah?” 

Okay. Disappointing, but no big deal. Chan will be twenty-one in his second year. That’s fine. He can wait — especially because this means his intuition wasn’t wrong. Seungcheol wants this, too, wants him. This is the first person he’s had to chase, but not the first person unable to reciprocate his feelings (yet). They both have hunger. 

“Twenty-one,” Chan repeats. He fixes his grip around Seungcheol’s hand; Seungcheol meets his gaze, immediately shies away from the determined glint in Chan’s eyes. Shies from the way they narrow, dark despite the circus of lights encircling; dark and heady as if he’s back on that plaza, performing, his microphone to his lips and an eager audience before him. “Fine.” 

🎸

Jun snickers around a mouthful of blueberry popsicle, eyeing the text thread on Chan’s phone. “Otter. You’re a loose canon.” 

Chan pouts at him. “Am I at least a _sexy_ loose cannon?” 

Wonwoo turns his head to look at Chan, who’s sitting on top of the toilet seat, then to Jun, who’s sitting on the edge of the tub. “Can you two loose cannons talk about sexting somewhere else? I’m starting to feel sick and it’s too small in here for four people.”

Hyejin swats Wonwoo’s head, then forces him to look ahead and eye level with the bathroom mirror from his spot on the stool. “Stop moving, you prude, or else I’m gonna burn th’shit outta you with this curling iron.” He grumbles, but crosses his arms and obeys. So far, half of his head is in tight spirals while the other half is pin straight; she’d insisted that once she brushes it out it’ll turn into waves, but everyone — including Hyejin herself — has grown more and more doubtful as she works. 

“Ignore the asexual,” Jun says to Chan’s phone. He scrolls with the thumb of the same hand holding it, his other occupied with a half-eaten popsicle. “It’s not even sexting... and this is fun.” 

“Because you love drama,” Hyejin answers, rolls her eyes. Wonwoo grumbles his agreement. 

Chan ignores them, choosing instead to lean over Jun and read what Jun’s reading as if he doesn’t already know what it says. “So… you think I’m getting closer?” 

He waited approximately two business days to text Seungcheol a late-night come hither-slash-banter that had enough plausible deniability as to not— alright, yes, it’s a very blatant come hither with zero plausible deniability, because that isn’t how Chan operates. If he wants to suck massive, third-year dick in a storage closet he’s not going to mince any words. He wants to suck massive, third-year dick in a storage closet. Or anywhere said third-year wants to shove his dick into Chan’s mouth. He’s not picky. 

So, yeah, he sent Seungcheol a selfie of himself lying back on his bed, crop top rucked up and revealing a significant expanse of his skin, his tapered waist, the very edge of a nipple. It was taken just before he wiped off his makeup that night, and his eyeliner was smudged, lips a baby pink (see: signature lip tint), black hair fanned out around his face and a silver chainlink necklace hanging from his neck.

He wore that outfit for _Seunghceol’s_ sake, so Seungcheol’s gonna see it, goddamnit. 

Seungcheolie hyung: _Wow. You looked bad ass. Sad I missed it :(_

He uses actual smiley faces instead of emojis. How fucking endearing. Two can play at that game. 

Chan: _sad you missed it too_. 

Chan: _only bad ass though? :^)_

Jun snickers again. “Can you be any more obvious?” 

Chan pouts at him again, bottom lip jutted out. “That was the point, though.” 

“Some men like a chase,” Jun says.

Hyejin titters. “I’m not sure Seungcheol is one of those men.” Debatable. 

Seungcheolie hyung: _And cute. Haha_

“Yikes,” Jun says. 

Chan: _this cute too?_

Jun flicks down to the photo attachment. It’s Chan standing in front of his bedroom mirror, a silk-black robe hanging from his blatantly naked body; the waist tie was loose, the front split into a deep V until it came together _right_ above his groin. His dark makeup was, yet again, smudged around his eyes, red lipstick staining his mouth corners; his hair was a half-damp, haphazard mess. Essentially, Chan looked like he had his soul fucked out of him and had taken a shower without removing his makeup properly. A wing-shaped, dangling earring hung from his left earlobe. 

Look. Everyone says Seungcheol’s a good boy, but Chan knows there has to be something acidic deep inside of him, something toxic and instinctual. The way Seungcheol looked at him — past tense, because Seungcheol started dating his (ex-)girlfriend _right_ before Chan started second year, fucking up the promise they made over a year ago — was proof enough. No man with pure intentions looks at someone like they want to toss them over a shoulder and carry them to the nearest bedroom. Chan has been with _many_ sexual partners since he started university, practically has a phD in Sex & Flirtation. 

Jun whistles, eyes widening. “Wow. You really don’t mess around.” He looks childishly giddy as he continues to scroll down the thread. “This is like studying a new species doing their mating call, or something.” 

“That doesn’t sound so far from the truth,” Wonwoo quips. Chan kicks at his stool, nearly toppling Wonwoo over. “ _Hey_! You could’ve given me third degree burns, Chan, c’mon.” 

Hyejin is holding the curling iron up and away from Wonwoo’s head. Frowning at Chan (who hasn’t even looked away from Jun and his phone screen), she says, “You’re so lucky I have fast reflexes.” 

Seungcheolie hyung: _Still cute, yes._

Seungcheolie hyung: _But also. Wow. Haha_

“Yikes,” Jun repeats. “He’s not taking the bait, is he?” 

“Because he decided to ruin my life and get a girlfriend,” Chan says. “And because he’s a big fuckin’ softie, he hasn’t gotten over her yet. I’m running out of patience.” 

Hyejin giggles, wrapping a lock of Wonwoo’s hair around the hot iron and twisting her wrist. Wonwoo is holding his phone horizontally to play some dumb turn-based game that he’s been working on since Chan’s known him. Nerd.

“Are you?” she says. “‘Cause your actions say otherwise.” 

“You’ve been trying to court this guy for forever,” Jun agrees. He reads Chan’s response — _only wow? ;^)_ — and doesn’t hide his eyeroll. “ _God_ , you’re bad at this.” 

Chan snatches his phone back; that insult lost Jun text-reading privileges. Jun whines and tries to grab it back with his free hand, but Chan holds it out of reach. “ _Court_ him? No. Fuck him? Yes.” 

“Court doesn’t only mean dating. It can mean a lot of—“ 

“Shut up, nerd,” Chan swings his foot at Wonwoo’s, the culprit’s, stool legs again, immediately retracts it when both Hyejin and Wonwoo shoot him a warning glare. 

Jun continues to try and pry Chan’s phone away from him. “I’m sorry! Please let me see how he turns you down!” 

To take a word from Seungcheol’s playbook: _wow_. Ouch? Jun’s definitely not getting the phone now. Chan shoves him away, and Jun whimpers, cowering in theatrical fear. “How do you know he turned me down, though?” 

“Because he’s a hopeless romantic heartbroken over his ex?” Wonwoo says without looking away from his mobile game. Hyejin laughs. 

“He just misses being in a relationship,” Chan tries. “And he hasn’t given me the chance to show him what he’s missing.” He clicks off his screen before anyone can see Seungcheol’s weak, _More than wow for sure. Looking like a rockstar [thumbs up emoji]_ and bully him about it for the next twenty years. Has ‘courting’ someone always been this difficult? If so, Chan sends his condolences to those that have to do this stupid shit to get laid; the good ‘ol cliche _I’m in a band_ works for him just fine. 

“Yeah?” Jun says, tone thick with disbelief. “What a coincidence. Lee Jieun noona hasn’t given me the chance to show her what she’s missing, too.” 

Everyone barks laughter, and Chan, face and chest burning a scorching red, flicks all of them off and shouts a few _fuck you!_ ’s before hopping off the toilet seat and storming out. Whatever, man. Chan is, like, the lead vocalist of the most popular band on campus; he can seduce a guy two months post-breakup with a bat of an eyelash. He just hasn’t seen Seungcheol in a little while — something, something Seungcheol doesn’t want to party in case he runs into ex since they ran in the same circles. Something, something Ex was at The Social Venue the night of Chan’s performance, so Chan was forced to show Seungcheol his outfit via phone instead. 

_Whatever_ . He’s been twenty-one for more than half a year now, so the ‘barely age-appropriate to fuck’ excuse has been long since rendered obsolete. This is Chan’s year, and he’s gonna prove to his friends that Seungcheol _definitely_ isn’t Lee Jieun levels of unobtainable. 

🎸

Chan doesn’t have to meander inside the engineering hall for long before Seungcheol walks down from the second floor, Hansol beside him. Chan is not one for theatrics; he doesn’t bother to pretend that he wasn’t waiting for him, opting to watch the men nearby a couch, his hands in his studded leather jacket. His Doc Martens have platforms in the soles to give him a little height, and his dark wash jeans are so tight it took him easily ten minutes of maneuvering to get them over his ass. (Look. He’s on a mission here and will not be taking any criticism.) 

As usual, Seungcheol is hot as all hell. He’d recently dyed his hair a pastel blue and let it grow longer, and prior to this Chan had no idea he could get any hotter. But he can. And he did. Biceps on display with his sleeveless grey tee, loose joggers hanging low on his hips, Seungcheol walks with that natural charisma; all four of Chan’s senses dull to allow him hyper-focused vision. 

Shit, it’s been several weeks since they’ve seen one another. The way his arousal hits him like a fire sparking to life explains what that distance has done to him. 

Seungcheol is mid-sentence when he notices Chan staring at them with his bottom lip tucked between his teeth. “Chan,” he greets in surprise. “You doing okay?” Students amble by and around them to get to afternoon lectures.

“What’s up, rockstar,” Hansol says as they approach him. He slaps a hand on Chan’s back, and Chan removes one hand from his jacket pocket to do the same. “You were badass as usual last weekend.” 

Chan grins at him. “Thanks, hyung. Did you hear? We fuckin’ sold out the place. I was freaking _out_ when Baekhyun hyung told us.” 

“I’m sure,” Hansol says. “It was packed in there.” 

“Sucks I missed it.” Seungcheol looks at Chan apologetically, eyes widening below furrowed brows. “I’m sorry. Again. I was just, like. Something came, and I couldn’t, like, postpone it ‘nd I jus—“ 

Chan waves him off. “Hey, hey. It’s okay. You can make it up to me.” Seungcheol quiets, apologetic expression now laced with curiosity. Chan swings one leg forward, taking a big step closer to Seungcheol. 

Seungcheol’s eyes roam down and over Chan’s outfit as if noticing it for the first time. His Adam’s apple bobs on a particularly heavy swallow. “How so?” his voice sounds far away. 

Chan shifts a little closer, the toes of his boots touching the toes of Seungcheol’s Converses. He tips his head up to make eye contact. “We’re gonna be playing at Legends next weekend. Pregame is at mine. Please come.” 

Seungcheol seems to have lost brain functioning, only sentient enough to gape at Chan’s mouth. It’s okay — Chan’s a patient man.

“Alright,” Hansol drawls. He takes an awkward step backwards. “I think this is my cue to head out. See you at our two o’clock, Seungcheolie.” 

“Sure,” Seungcheol says to Chan’s mouth. 

Then Hansol’s walking off, head ducked as if he’s seen something he shouldn’t have. Chan calls out, “See you later!” without bothering to move. 

Very quickly, the in-between-class rush is over, and they’re one of the few students left in the common area of the first floor. 

“Legends, huh,” Seungcheol mumbles. “In Hongdae, right? That’s a sweet gig.” 

Chan gives a jolt of a nod. Palm coming up to press against his abdomen, separated by only a godforsaken thin gray tee, he mumbles back, “It is. So you have to come or else I’m blocking your number. And your Instagram.” 

Seongcheol almost holds onto Chan’s hips as if on instinct, immediately comes to his senses and grabs onto his own backpack straps at the last second. Chan needs him to stop being that polite boy that you can introduce to your mother before he really does block him on every social media platform possible. 

If Seungcheol doesn’t show up to either his afterparty or his performance, there’s an eighty percent chance that he’ll go through with it. 

“Something tells me you won’t,” Seungcheol says. 

Chan quirks a manicured eyebrow. “You’re doubting me? I never lose a challenge, hyung. I need you to learn that from now.” And he won’t be losing _this_ challenge, either. 

“Maybe I shouldn’t show up, then, so I can see if you’re bluffing or not.” 

“Try me,” Chan’s reply is instantaneous. He presses down onto Seungcheol’s stomach, physically forces himself to not moan at how _firm_ he is, how he can trace the striations between each abdominal. Unfortunately, Seungcheol doesn’t play easy, and Chan’s traitorous lungs expel a rush of air when Seungcheol tenses his abdomen beneath his palm. 

This is an actual nightmare. 

Seungcheol gives him a taunting smirk. “Try you?” 

Chan decides to have mercy on his soul and not call attention to the possible double entendre. He goes for something a little more tame instead, answers, “I’ll be wearing a collar. You don’t wanna miss that, do you? I’ll even bring a leash so you—“ 

“Chan.” Seungcheol sounds wounded, looks it, too. Alright, maybe Chan’s Tame Meter is fucked up from years of promiscuity and hanging with _the wrong crowd_ , as his mother and father calls it. Opting for the quip about Seungcheol ‘trying him’ probably would’ve been his best bet. 

But. Too late. Chan can’t retract that. And he means it, anyway. He’s going to wear the collar that kinky little Wen Junhui gifted to him — a black leather one with a silver leash ring. Seungcheol seems like he’d enjoy that very much, considering how he reacted to the mere idea. 

Not so unobtainable after all, huh? (Fuck Jun.) 

“I’ll text you the time,” Chan continues as if he didn’t just rock Seungcheol’s world. “Pregame at mine, afterparty for friends only. Also at mine. Okay?” 

Seungcheol takes a dishearteningly long time to confirm. The floor is quiet, a scatter of students hunched over their laptops in the seats nearby; echoes of conversation carry on down from the second floor. Seungcheol has to be late for his lecture by now. 

“Uh,” Seungcheol starts. He oscillates from looking into Chan’s eyes to his mouth a few times before finally settling for eye contact. “Might not make it to the pregame,” he says. “But I can do Legends.” 

“Private afterparty?” _Please, please, please, plea—_

Seungcheol nods; Chan’s heart all but jumps into his throat when Seungcheol abandons his resolve and holds Chan by one hip, fingers curling around the bone. There’s an immediate fear of Chan melting into a puddle of arousal right on the engineering hall tiles. 

“I’ll be there,” Seungcheol says. He’s returned to staring at Chan’s lips. 

And who would Chan be to deny him? He breathes a sultry, _thank you, hyung_ , before rolling up onto his toes to kiss Seungcheol on the corner of his mouth. Seungcheol’s hold on his hip tightens. 

🎸

As a rule, band practice is mandatory everyday the week before a performance. Which means Chan has to balance lectures, assignments, and rehearsal without dying of exhaustion. They’ve transformed a place they’re renting into a soundproof room to store their equipment and run through their set. 

Legends is allowing them five songs, so the plan is to choose three fan favorites from their eight-song album — _Snapshoot_ , their only album so far — and then two unreleased ones. Wonwoo and Jun wrote the lyrics and melody for one of the new songs; it’s about a messy breakup, about the aftermath of losing someone you love and knowing you’ll never get them back. There are several sections where Chan has to convey the pain with screaming, sections where he has to sing softly with the accompaniment of Jun’s electric guitar and gentle cymbals from Hyejin. Jun’s experienced a few breakups that went south, but it’s mostly Wonwoo’s voice that Chan has to translate into song. _You Left_. 

The second one was written by Chan and Hyejin. It’s supposed to be a stark contrast to the first, lyrics about a found family, about leaving home, taking chances, and coming out on the other side unscathed. He and Hyejin both have personal ties to this, having strayed from what their parents expected them to do and thus having to sever ties with family members. Hyejin hasn’t spoken to her father in years, while Chan’s parents check in only once in a blue moon. Some of those blue moons are five minutes of his mom berating him. So. Not much better. _Distance_. 

_The Future_ is Chan’s family as far as he’s considered. 

The band is one night away from their performance, they’ve practiced the five songs so many times Chan swears he can still hear each ringing in his ears an hour into their break, and Jun is helping to nurse his throat with a thermostat of tea, when Soonyoung and Mingyu show up for moral support. They brought some moral support takeout, too. 

Jun looks up from where he sits on his amp box, fiddling with the tone controls on his electric guitar. “Oh, thank god,” he sighs. “Thank you. I’m starving.” 

Chan is sitting against a wall holding the thermostat in two hands. Hyejin is scrolling on her phone beside him. She peeks up over it to smile a greeting. “Hey, boys. Welcome to our humble abode.” 

Soonyoung deposits the bags of food onto their cluttered table, making room for it around the notebooks, abandoned bottles of soda, and assorted tools for instrument tuning and tightening. “Thank you, thank you. And you’re welcome,” he acknowledges Jun. 

“Ddukbokki, jajangmyeon, kimchi,” Mingyu rattles off before going over to Chan and tugging him into a hug. “How’s practice been going?” 

Chan’s always loved his hugs. So warm being wrapped in a much larger, much more muscular body. He’s fine with chasing Seungcheol, of course, but if Mingyu didn’t already have a girlfriend… 

He immediately tosses that impure thought out as to not sully such an innocent, heartwarming embrace; he wraps his free arm around Mingyu’s waist and gives it a playful squeeze. “Hey, Mingu hyung. Really good. I think one more night to practice is going to put us on the next level.” 

“Too late,” Mingyu retorts. He sits back onto the floor, breaking the hug, to grin at him. There’s a hint of sharp canines. “You guys _are_ the next level. The other bands don’t stand a chance, dude.” 

Hyejin, Jun, and Soonyoung stand to open the takeout boxes and find a spot to set them down. “I’m in heaven,” Jun moans. “Smells incredible.” 

Chan bats his eyelashes at Mingyu, smiles coyly. “Aww, my number one fan next to Jihoon hyung.” He pats Mingyu’s cheek, laughs when Mingyu beams and leans into the touch. “Cute. Thanks.” 

Then they arrange themselves in a small circle on the floor of the practice room, everyone with their own plastic bowls of food and a pair of chopsticks. Chan lets them see the handwritten lyrics of the two new songs from his worn notebook, where lots of lines are crossed out, scribbled through, rewritten in several different ways until the final draft is circled in red. Soonyoung and Mingyu shower him and his bandmates in praises, _ooh_ ’ing and _aww_ ’ing over the explanations Hyejin and Wonwoo take turns giving. Chan lets them take the reins so he can eat and finish his tea. 

When they’re done chatting about the set, Soonyoung sighs dreamily and looks at each member. “Isn’t it crazy how fast _The Future_ got popular? One minute Mingyu was telling me you started a band, and then the next we’re watching you guys sell out venues. Like. What the fuck?” 

“I still can’t believe it,” Wonwoo agrees. “When I first joined, I thought it’d be a side hobby or some kinda failed passion project“ — he ignores Hyejin and Chan’s offended _hey_ ’s — “But now I’m making enough to pay off most of my bills… and people are asking for my autograph on campus. Wild.” 

“Wild,” Jun parrots around a mouthful of ddukbokki. 

Hyejin swallows the food in her mouth, then says, “Right time at the right place, talent, or both? I have no idea.” 

“Right person,” Chan says. Everyone looks at him. “Seungcheol hyung knows a lot of people, and when I told him we were gonna debut at th’plaza he told his fr—“ 

“Here we go about Seungcheol again,” Jun interrupts with an obnoxious groan, one that has Chan fighting the urge to toss his hot food in his face just to shut him up. “Yes, he played a part, but most of that crowd were randoms. People were curious about our music and watched.” 

“Wait,” Soonyoung says. He blinks, confused, at Jun, then Chan. “What about Seungcheolie? Is there something going on with him?” 

Hyejin side-eyes Chan, not getting eye contact because he’s pointedly staring at his black bean noodles. “Good question. Otter?” 

“Last time I spoke to him he told me he and Seolhyun noona broke up,” Mingyu says. “He was really cut up about it. But I ‘dunno how he’s doing lately. It’s been a couple months.” 

Chan can still feel Hyejin’s heavy gaze on him. So, okay, whatever, this isn’t some kind of secret he’s keeping. If she insists on being annoying, he’ll remove her leverage. “He’s fine,” he sniffs. “I’ll be there to kiss it better.” 

Immediate silence. Soonyoung and Mingyu consider him like he wasn’t speaking fluent Korean. Hyejin, Jun, and Wonwoo continue to casually eat their takeout and watch the scene unfold before them. 

“Huh?” Soonyoung says, mouth hanging open. “Wait, wait— you’re? You like Seungcheol?” 

“Like,” Jun parrots in a scoff. “Too tame. More like he’s obsessed. We can’t go more than three days without him mentioning Seungcheol. I only wanna hear about him when you manage to get in his pants; otherwise, it’s like talking about Jieun noona. A fantasy.” 

Chan frowns at him. There goes that stupid fucking comparison again. “It’s not like Jieun,” he counters. “I actually have a chance with Seungcheol hyung.” 

It’s Mingyu’s turn to gape. “You do? When did this happen? What happened to Baekho hyung?” 

“ _Baekho hyung_ ?” Soonyoung gasps in disbelief. “What about _Minhyun_?” 

Thus sparks debate about Chan’s new boytoy of the month. Hyejin and Jun are looking very amused while Mingyu and Soonyoung go back and forth; Wonwoo can’t look more disinterested if he tries. 

Chan raises a palm. “Stop,” he shouts. He earns silence and five pairs of eyes. “Short story is that I’m a whore.” Hyejin snickers and ducks her head. “Long story is that none of them were anything serious. It’s Seungcheol hyung I want.” 

“Since year one,” Jun interjects. “May I mention.” 

“How come I’ve never heard about this until now?” Mingyu asks. “I thought we were friends!” 

Chan rolls his eyes. “If I told you about every guy I wanted to fuck you’d hear from me everyday.” 

“But… If it’s Seungcheol that you want,” Soonyoung starts. “Why all the guys? Why not just go after Seungcheol? Or is he straight?” Seeming to come to his own conclusion, he gasps, slapping a hand over his mouth. “Are you trying to get into a straight guy’s pants? Is that what this is?” 

“Seungcheol’s straight?” Mingyu asks. 

Suddenly Chan is regretting being pressured into admitting his crush. Attraction. Whatever — the point is that he’s regretting this, because these two are incapable of holding a normal, non-chaotic conversation. Hyejin has been written onto his hit list right under Jun. 

“No. He’s not. And he’s about over Seolhyun noona, alright, so we don’t need to worry about that,” Chan deadpans. “He’s coming to my performance, and then to the afterparty. You guys, Jihoon, Jeonghan, Minghao, and Hansol hyung are invited.” 

Soonyoung and Mingyu cheer, fists pumped into the air. 

Hyejin nudges Chan’s thigh with her knee. “He’s confirmed coming to the afterparty? I thought that was a maybe?” 

“He’s coming.” If Chan has anything to do with it, he is. He’d been threatened with a social media blocking spree and everything. 

And Chan also has an outfit planned out already, so if Seungcheol misses yet another one of Chan’s Greatest Hits, the block button(s) will be tapped so quickly he’d time travel a few seconds into the future. No lie. 

Hyejin doesn’t look like she believes him, but she answers a reluctant, “Okay,” anyway. 

“This is going to be entertaining,” Wonwoo says. 

🎸

Performance nights are often high stress, high reward. Chan has a shot or two at his pregame to calm his nerves, loosen his limbs. He and his bandmates had driven to the venue an hour before their party, two before their performance, to set up with the help of management. This way, they can enjoy themselves without having to fret over having enough time to prepare. 

Where The Social Venue is dark and cramped, the stench of cigarette smoke and sweat thick in the air, Legends is bigger, cleaner, and smoking isn’t allowed. It’s still dark, but that’s, like, the ambience they’re going for. Blood red strobe lights and ink black wallpaper. Also — and this is the most important benefit — ticket prices are higher, which means payout is higher. That, and they’re able to earn a larger percentage than at the other shithole (he calls TSV a shithole lovingly; Baekhyun, the venue’s manager, is a blessing and a true friend). It’s a good time and good pay, just what broke university students need. 

Chan’s so preoccupied with the bustle that he barely notices that Seungcheol, true to word, didn’t make it to the pregame. It’s whatever, though; Chan’s prepared for his eventual arrival, leather collar clasped firmly around his neck, the ring resting on his collarbones. Jun knew exactly what he was going for as soon as he saw him with it on, only laughed giddily and made Chan promise to retell the experience down to the most intricate of details — _if_ he managed to get Seungcheol in bed. Jun’s a weirdo pervert, but he’s Chan’s weirdo pervert, so Chan agreed as he normally does when Jun asks for details on his escapades. 

Hyejin helped him paint his nails sparkly black, helped him apply his signature dark eyeliner, pink lip-tint. And he’s wearing a loose blouse with a deep V-neck for air circulation (it gets hot as fuck when you’re on stage belting your heart out for an hour plus). His jeans have a slit right under one ass cheek, gaping holes in the thighs and knees; underneath them are fishnets, hints peeking out where there’s missing denim. Then, Chan’s trusted ankle boots, a litter of silver rings, and he’s ready to perform. 

Both on stage and, hopefully, in a bed. 

Another Saturday night, another sold-out venue. Jihoon, Mingyu, Jeonghan, Hansol, Minghao, and Soonyoung are out in the crowd ready to scream their heads off when he walks onto stage, and he and his bandmates are backstage, huddled in their square formation like they always do before performances. 

Everyone looks good. Hyejin has black lipstick on, a two-piece crop top and wide-legged slacks, heels that make her taller than Chan. Then there’s Wonwoo with his wavy mop of hair and black leather, Jun with a black button-down, black slacks. Lots of black — just the way _The Future_ likes it. 

“Would you like to do the honors, Otter?” Hyejin asks Chan. Her lavender perfume is a heaven sent, calming the nerves that vodka did not cure. “Baby rockstar, dear leader?” 

Jun and Wonwoo turn their attention to him. Chan extends his arms out, and they all hold hands, forming a circle. Outside, the MC is busy hyping up the audience. 

“Found family,” Chan starts dramatically, eliciting snickers from his bandmates. “Friends, life partners. We worked our asses off for this day. Every single one of us. This is the product of our labor. Our sweat and tears. Thank you for another night letting me live out my wildest fantasies. I couldn’t do this without you guys.” 

“Love you,” Jun says tearfully. 

“Love you guys,” Wonwoo says. 

“Always and forever,” Hyejin says. “We are _The Future._ This is our future.” 

Wonwoo, Chan, and Jun repeat the mantra in shouts — _We are_ The Future. _This is our future!_ — before they break away from the circle, shout and shimmy around with anxiety and excitement and adrenaline. A staff member standing off to the side gives them a questioning thumbs up once they’re done; Chan confirms with a thumbs up of his own, then she starts to count them down from three. 

_It’s about that time_ , the MC is saying into the microphone. The volume of the audience doubles. 

“Here we go!” Hyejin screams, rocking from foot to foot. Wonwoo is taking several deep breaths from his mouth, eyes closed behind his circle-lens glasses. Jun laughs giddily, almost crazed. 

_Who we’re all here for: the incredibly talented, ever-popular,_ The Future! 

“Alright,” Chan shouts. “Showtime.” 

He and his bandmates walk onto stage. 

  
  
  
Unstoppable. They’re fucking unstoppable. Both their old and new songs are a hit, the crowd was insatiable, and — yes. Yes. Seungcheol was out there, leaning against the bar safely away from the dancing audience, watching. 

He’s so fucking hot. Chan can’t take it. Like, literally. Chan had to remind himself that he needed to be present on stage when he caught Seungcheol’s eyes and choked on his saliva. ‘Cause, oh _god_ , there he was, fitted white tee on, those chiseled arms crossed, blue jeans loose but still showing off the thick, long line of his legs. Chan was suddenly unsure of whether he should be thankful that some higher power brought Seungcheol to him, or to curse said Higher Power for torturing him with a man he hasn’t been able to stop thinking about for one point five years. 

Chan’s focus — and energy — is best spent showing Seungcheol what he’s missing. And while he’s normally a perfectionist when it comes to his music, Seungcheol being there has him gyrate his hips a _little_ bit more, has him wink and smirk and play the stage a _little_ bit more. The whole nine yards. Whenever Jun and Hyejin, his back-up vocals, sing their lines into their microphones, Chan will skip over to them, hold Jun from behind and smile against his cheek, press a kiss into Hyejin’s bare shoulder and hurl the crowd into hysterics. 

During instrumentation, the sections where there’s nothing but drums and the guitars, Chan thrashes about with his mic in hand as if he were a part of the mosh pit growing in front of the stage. Mingyu shoves his way through with his camera, snapping photos while Chan shows off what years of dance gifted him: perfect rhythm, perfect form, a perfect bodyline. He’s unstoppable. 

Then, after the show is over and another (shitty) band comes out after them, Chan staggers backstage and goes to fish his phone out of Hyejin’s purse, finds a text from Seungcheol that was sent minutes before their set. Chan taps it open, yelling a raspy, distracted, “Coming,” when Wonwoo beckons him to help pack their instruments in Hyejin’s van. 

Seungcheolie hyung: _You don’t have to block me now. I hope you held up to your part of the deal._

It takes Chan an embarrassingly long time to remember what his part of the deal is. He stands there, by Hyejin’s open purse, reading those two sentences over and over, only able to register how ominous they sound with perfect grammar and punctuation. 

The weight of the collar around his neck is a reminder that comes several seconds too late. 

Right. Yeah — Chan’s decided to curse Higher Power for this very odd, very custom-made method of torture. Like something out there wants him to repent for his sins and knows hot, older men are the only way to do just that. Cool. 

Chan: _no no no your part of the deal isn’t done yet._

Chan: _if youre not at my place in the next 30 minutes you’ll never hear from me again_

They both know that’s not true. But Seungcheol plays along, responding almost instantly with, _I’ll be there_. 

He’ll be there. Chan wonders if it’s too late to apologize for his curse. 

🎸

Chan doesn’t listen to much western music — his interests lie in the heavy metal, rock scene, if nothing else — but there have been a few diamonds in the rough. He’ll become obsessed with an American band he discovers, play it for Hyejin as they try to parse the lyrics and translate it into Korean, and then, there: Chan’s singing along in English, taking pieces of inspiration from the melody, the words. Nothing will ever beat his favorites. DickPunk (who, as if fate determined it, rose to fame in Hongdae), Crying Nut, Guckkasten, the works. 

He plays his western rock at the afterparty. Of course, the journey there is harrowing; Chan has to physically fight off groupies that are waiting for him by their getaway van. Then he has to silence his second phone, because seemingly every fling from debut to now loves to call and text him after a show like clockwork. And as Chan and his bandmates take off for his and Hyejin’s apartment, Chan is working out the logistics, juggling several different group chats at once to be sure his friends are coming to celebrate. (Normally they’d stick around the venue to discuss splitting profits with the manager, but _The Future_ has become so popular that it’s safer if they return in a day or two once the ticket and bar money is counted.) 

Soonyoungie hyung: _you killed it channie!! great show! minghao & i are gonna head back to our apartment, but don’t have too much fun without us!! _

Minghao hyung liked Soonyoungie hyung’s text message. 

Jeonghan (sometimes hyung): _i_ _t was alright. less screaming next time, please._

Mingyu hyung: ignore _him, channie. he loved it just as much as we did. OTW!_

Jihoonie: _guess i won’t be sleeping tonight kekekeke_

Chan smirks at his phone, taps a response. 

Chan: _yes!!! can’t wait!! :^)_

He moves onto his group chat with some of his friends in the band scene, sends them the address and threatens them to show up or else. 

Then, to Seungcheol: _hope youre on your way, hyung._

  
  


Chan and Hyejin’s apartment is decorated with nothing but second-hand furniture. Their monetary success feels too recent and too fickle to start splurging, so they decided to maintain their frugal lifestyle and funnel their profits into savings and back into the band — instrument maintenance, car upkeep, renting the practice room. So chipped, wooden dining tables, leather couches that have definitely seen better days, and frayed rugs it is; Chan really likes the theme, anyway. Gives their place a well-lived, antique vibe. 

It’s twenty minutes after _The Future_ gets to their place, and most of their mutual friends are hanging out in the kitchen and living room. Since there aren’t as many people as there were before the performance, Wonwoo ordered expensive fuckin’ pizza to complement their assortment of chips and liquor; Jun turns the volume on the speakers up so loud that there’s no way neighbors down the street can’t hear it. (Their stack of noise complaints are out of this world.) 

Chan sticks to one cup of a 1:2 ratio of vodka and soda. The plan is to stay sober enough to be in the moment when he rides Seungcheol’s dick like he’s being paid for it, and that can’t be accomplished with a plastered Chan. Jun has razor sharp senses, smirks at Chan like he knows exactly what Chan’s up to; Chan promptly dodges his leer and prances over to where Mingyu and his friends are chatting, in the kitchen. 

The freak only wants a story he can use as future wank material. But Seungcheol isn’t even here yet, so Jun needs to keep it in his pants for a little bit longer. 

“Got any good shots?” Chan says by greeting, his free arm tugging Mingyu in by the waist. Mingyu’s holding the camera down by his hips so Jihoon and Hansol — but mostly Jihoon — can see. 

“They’re all good shots,” Mingyu mutters distractedly. He flicks through each one, Chan mid-scream in some, dancing seductively in others. There are several of Hyejin with her drumsticks up in the air, several more of Wonwoo and Jun thrumming their hearts out, faces scrunched in concentration. “You give me chills, rockstar.” 

“Talented for sure,” Hansol says to the camera screen. 

Chan gives a shameless grin even though he’s not being watched. “Thanks, hyungs. Send me these when you have a chance, wanna post some to our Instagram.” And the shots with only him will go on his personal account, thank you very much. 

God. A good show makes him so horny for some reason, has his damp skin tingling with leftover adrenaline. He can’t wait to relive his performance when _The Future_ ’s fans upload videos of the show and tag him on it. 

“You got it,” Mingyu says. He shuts his camera off and hooks the strap around his neck; the four men turn their attention to one another. “I can edit them tonight so you can get it tomorrow? How does that sound?”

Chan shrugs. “Whatever works. Just make me look pretty.” 

“Too late,” Mingyu retorts, and Chan, earning the response he was baiting for, beams again. 

Jihoon takes a sip from his own red cup. After swallowing, he says, “This outfit, though. Very daring.” He relinquishes his drink when Mingyu pries it out of his hand. 

“I’m a daring man,” Chan says, jutting one hip out and flipping his half-damp fringe theatrically. “Wanted to do something a little different tonight. Like it?” 

Hansol is eyeing the fishnets that fill in the holes of his jeans. “Looks androgynous, or something. ‘M digging this.” 

Mingyu hums his agreement around the rim of Jihoon’s cup. 

“Can we talk about your new songs, though?” Jihoon says. “I loved them. The one that went, like… something about life not being easy?” 

“Ah,” Chan drawls. “ _I know in the end there are no easy things in life, but since I have you everything is alright_?” He sings the lyrics half-heartedly. 

Jihoon snaps his fingers and points at him. “Yes! That one. I loved that song.” 

“What was it about? I couldn’t hear the words too well with all the noise,” Hansol says. “Some girls were screaming in my ear the whole fucking night.” 

“My friends and family,” Chan explains. Pauses. “Well — my found family, not my blood relatives. I couldn’t not make a song about how much you guys mean to me, c’mon.” He pulls the closest victims into a hug, which ends up being Mingyu and Hansol, in each arm. Chan sends a metaphorical hug to Jihoon with a smile. “I love you guys. Thanks for coming to support as usual.” 

“I’m your number one fan, right?” Jihoon says on a titter. “It’s, like, an obligation to watch you sing.” 

Mingyu pouts down at Chan, then at Jihoon. “Wait? I thought I was his number one fan?” 

Hansol snickers behind a closed fist. “Gotta get in line, Mingyu.” 

Speaking of fans… Chan looks around, out at the crowd surrounding them and out in the living room. He blinks, confused, at the three men. “Did Jeonghanie hyung come with y’guys?” 

“He ran off to flirt with some of your groupies,” Hansol says with a smirk and an eyeroll. “I told him he doesn’t have a chance as long as you’re around, but you know that man doesn’t listen to reason.” 

“Or screamo,” Mingyu says. 

Chan does his signature, boisterous laugh. “Those aren’t my groupies. Just some friends I fuck sometimes.” Jihoon goes, _what’s the difference?_ , but Chan ignores that. “He can have them. I’m on a mission here.” 

Recognition flashes across Mingyu’s face, and he has to work to fight the smile that follows. Hansol’s eyes flicker over to Mingyu, curious, before a memory of his own seems to hit him (one that concerns the engineering hall, for sure) and he’s also fighting a smile, quickly losing the fight. 

And perhaps this omnipresent higher power is looking out for Chan, after all, because just as he glances out at the foyer, there Seungcheol is. Seungcheol, a couple of their mutual friends in tow, fitted tee and pastel waves. He’s busy kicking off his shoes while listening to something a guy is telling him — Seokmin, Chan thinks his name is — laughing and flashing his straight, white teeth, pink gums. 

Whatever song that’s playing ends, and one of the American punkrock bands, _Mindless Self Indulgence_ , comes on. What timing. There’s only one way this night can get better than it already is, and that’s, of course, Chan getting— 

“A mission?” Jihoon is saying somewhere near him. Chan’s no longer paying attention to anybody’s spatial order but Seungcheol’s. “Am I the only one that has no idea what’s happening?” 

Seungcheol is making his way into the living room. Chan doesn’t give a fuck about shit like ‘playing it cool’ or wanting to not look desperate; he says to them, “I gotta go,” without tearing his eyes away, gives Mingyu, Hansol, and Jihoon a blind wave before taking off. Jihoon’s shouts of dissent are swallowed up in a guitar riff. 

This is usually the easy part. Chan is a social butterfly, thrives when he’s being adored, shameless in the ways he knows other people wish they could be. That’s how he gets whatever he wants: being brazen. Stubborn. So when he’s of the mind to pull someone into his bed, it’s a walk in the park.

Chan’s always a couple of eyelash bats and loose hands — zero concept of personal space — away from winning. But he can’t help but admit that it’s a little (a lot) more exciting that Seungcheol’s taken so long to give in. 

That’s gotta change now, though. 

Seokmin is squeezing his way to the kitchen while Chan is making a beeline for the living room. They pass one another between Jun and some friends chatting on the left, Hyejin and her girl friends on the right ( _being around men all the time is exhausting_ , she’d told them once. And — fair). 

Just as Seungcheol is sitting down onto a free couch, Chan plops down right beside him, body contorted in his direction so that Seungcheol’s trapped by the arm of the couch and Chan’s pliant body. “Woah,” Seungcheol exclaims, his arm on Chan’s side raising so he can accommodate for Chan’s presence. He drapes it over the back of the couch. “Hey.” 

That _woah_ is bringing back horrible memories. 

Despite its zero percent accuracy rate, Chan does his eyebat. An eyebat Seungcheol misses, because he’s too busy eyeing the leather collar around Chan’s neck. Failed again. “Hi,” he drawls. “You’re here.”

“In the flesh,” Seungcheol quips. His gaze finally drags up to Chan’s. “You were incredible as always out there.” 

Compliments always feed Chan’s ego, but a compliment from Seungcheol feeds him in a different way. One that settles deep in his abdomen, burning deliciously. “You think so?” he says. 

“Of course.” Seungcheol regards him like he has two heads. “You’re made for the stage, Channie. I couldn’t look away the entire time.” 

_Yes_. The heat stirs into arousal. More, more, more. 

Chan pats the thigh closest to him and beams. “Good. Don’t want you to look away.” 

Seungcheol just stares. So does Chan. His lashes are so long, fanning across his cheek with every blink. This close, Chan can appreciate the glimmer to Seungcheol’s rounded, doe eyes; and Seungcheol’s just so _warm_. His arm and leg, where they touch Chan’s, his disposition, those lips. He’s kissed them a good few times already and yet each time feels like the first, like Chan has to learn how to navigate him over and over. Warm and ever-changing. 

Chan is endeared to the warmth that is Choi Seungcheol — but he needs something else, too. He needs a deeper burn, the acid he’s convinced courses through Seungcheol’s veins; and he can feel that untapped power, how the glint contradicts the way Seungcheol handles him like he’s frail and knows no better. 

_After this, the rest is all bullshit!_ his speakers are singing. _I’m so underground, I be scalping all my tickets . . ._

No more excuses. “See? Wore it for you.” Chan leans in, more more more, until Seungcheol can feel his breath as he whispers to him. Chan fingers the collar, index and middle sliding underneath. “We both held up to our promises.” 

Seungcheol doesn’t stop staring. Chan can see himself in his pupils, a distorted backdrop of friends and found family. “Yeah,” Seungcheol breathes distantly. “We did.” 

_Under educated, extra caffeinated! I just masturbated, now I’m motivated._

Chan officially has his mouth hovering mere centimeters from Seungcheol’s, eyes heavy-lidded as he focuses in on those full, taunting lips. Seungcheol has yet to move a muscle. This is it. “Let’s go to my room,” he continues to whisper. Even with the deafening volume of music, he’s heard loud and clear. 

_Can’t live with us, you can’t live without us! I take it then I break it, then you write my paycheck!_

Chan chances a glance up only to reel over how that glint fucking _burns_ , a vat of acid pouring over and dripping straight between his legs. This is it. 

The barest hint of a smile splays across Seungcheol’s face, a unilateral upward quirk. This is fucking it. “I’m right behind you.” 

_And you love it — you love it, you love it, you love it!_  
  
  


Chan thinks of Hongdae. He’s had many firsts, but that debut — his first band, his first try at chasing his fantasies — impacted him in ways he’d never suspected. He had no idea that’d be the beginning of a dream. He didn’t know he’d share that first with Seungcheol, his mascara running and a large, warm palm pressed to his cheek. 

And maybe he was too young then, to erroneously believe that bedding someone would somehow cure the pain. Chan was volatile and brimming with self-hate, convinced he’d ruined it for his bandmates and that _The Future_ would instead remain in his past. So maybe Seungcheol was correct to keep distance, allow him to grow and mature along with his band. Seungcheol’s good at that. Protecting others. 

Not much has changed. Seungcheol meanders around Chan’s room, checking out the posters and wall of CD albums with his hands curled into his jean pockets. Chan settles on the edge of his bed and watches Seungcheol as if every cell in his body isn’t telling him to jump him and rip those pesky clothes off. 

Patience, Chan. What’s an extra half an hour to nearly two years? 

“You still listen to CDs?” Seungcheol scoffs. “Were you even old enough to grow up with them?” 

It’s Chan’s turn to scoff. “Were _you_? I’m twenty-one, not fifteen, hyung.” 

Seungcheol hums. There’s a muted chorus of shouts from outside the room and down the hall. Jun must’ve started a game of flip cup. “Just messin’ with you. This is cool. Very retro.” 

Chan doesn’t respond. He stares at the swell of Seungcheol’s ass in his jeans as Seungcheol touches the plastic covers. 

“You have a lot of admirers,” Seungcheol says. He turns away from the wall to regard Chan. “Some came up to me after your show and asked for your number. Guess people know we’re frie—“ 

“Why are we talking about other people right now?” 

Seungcheol is stunned into silence. His lips remain parted, hint of teeth bared. 

Chan tilts his head just so. “I don’t care about admirers. You’re the only one here right now.” 

There’s more silence. Chan can practically see Seungcheol’s brain trying to conjure up something productive to say. He sits and waits. 

Finally— “Are you sure?” Seungcheol breathes. “That this is what you want?” 

Again: not much has changed. “Since I met you. Is it what you want? Me?” 

His hesitation sounds like a resounding _yes, yes, I wanted you since I met you, too_. Aloud, Seungcheol says, “I don’t know if I can give you what you want.” 

Chan scoffs. An eyebrow rises. “What do you think I want?” 

Seungcheol stiffens where he stands. A conflict of lust and concern twists his face several directions. “I— I don’t. I’m only gonna disappoint you.” 

“Hyung.” Chan raises a hand, beckons him with the curl of his index finger. “Come here.” 

There’s only a second of contemplation before Seungcheol obeys. He sits beside Chan, a sliver of space between their thighs. Chan follows him with his gaze. Seungcheol presses his hands between his knees. 

“It’s okay,” Chan says. “I said I don’t give’a shit about anyone else. Just you.” 

Seungcheol looks at him. Chan gives him a soft smile, then reaches out to pry a hand out of Seungcheol’s lap and onto his own, right where the jeans give way for his bare skin and fishnets. Seungcheol sucks in a sharp breath; his palm is so warm. 

“Already told you I wanted you to make me a man. You want that, too?” 

“Jesus Christ,” Seungcheol whimpers. His eyes screw shut, pained by the slap of Chan’s words. “When you talk like that…” He doesn’t say anything else. Chan understands, anyway. 

And Chan wants to understand this, too: “If you’re scared because you’re still thinking about Seolhyun noona, I understand—“ 

“Not,” Seungcheol says, firm. His eyes are back open and looking at Chan. “She’s not—she isn’t. It’s not about her. I just.” An extended pause as Chan considers him, expression soft, his hand on top of Seungcheol’s. “I don’t know. I think I’m thinking too hard.” 

Chan breaks into a laugh. “I think you are, too.” 

Seungcheol joins him in the laugh, ducks his head. “Right. Sorry.” 

Another song starts to play from the living room. It’s about that hour of the night where everyone is intoxicated and acting with lowered inhibitions; excited shouting persists, taking a sharp incline in volume. Seungcheol’s fall to silence is the loudest of all. 

Alright. Chan’s bored of this game. “Hyung.” 

Seungcheol looks at him. 

Chan curls his fingers around the top of Seungcheol’s hand, leans into him. Seungcheol relaxes beneath Chan’s touch. “Kiss me?” 

The method to Seungcheol’s madness is obvious once witnessed. What Seungcheol wants is explicit permission. He wants to be sure no one will regret what they’ve done in the morning. The last thing he wants to do is cross boundaries, take without giving. So endearing, so frustrating. 

But— that’s fine. Sweet. 

Except Chan doesn’t want sweet right now. And Seungcheol is more than just careful; he’s perceptive, too, quickly learns that Chan wants him to take the lead. Wants a rough touch, a desperate kiss, wants— “Fuck me,” Chan gasps into Seungcheol’s mouth. He’s rolling backwards, grabbing blindly at the hem of Seungcheol’s tee and tugging it up as Seungcheol follows him down. “Fuck me, hyung, please fuck me.” 

Seungcheol answers in a low groan. He breaks the kiss only long enough to help Chan get his shirt off, promptly discards it onto the foot of the bed before catching Chan’s mouth again. 

Then Chan’s flat on his mattress, Seungcheol’s bracketing him in with elbows beside each shoulder, and Chan’s licking back into Seungcheol’s mouth, his heat. _God_ , so hot, burning Chan alive, melting his skin until he feels raw, vulnerable. He cradles Seungcheol’s jaw in his hands, nibbles Seungcheol’s bottom lip, tugs it between his teeth and revels in the moan he elicits. 

This has to be the fastest he’s gotten hard since he was a teenager. 

Seungcheol’s a fast learner. He kisses deeply, a passion rivaled only by Chan’s persistence, palms roaming over the muscles in Seungcheol’s back, down down down to grab two handfuls of his ass. Chan swallows another, prolonged groan, squeezes to try for one more. Seungcheol’s moan falls into a breathless laugh. 

Chan can see himself kissing Seungcheol for hours. And he contemplates doing so, when Seungcheol pulls away and he catches eye of how prettily Seungcheol’s lips bloom cherry-red, wet and swollen and ripe. But that idea is immediately tossed after one of Chan’s hands roam over a hip and palms at Seungcheol’s groin. 

Chan’s mouth opens in a gasp. Seungcheol is rock hard in his jeans, and, “So big,” Chan says. “Your cock is so fucking big, fuck.” 

Seungcheol’s head falls between his shoulders and he shivers under Chan’s touch, groans, “Chan, Jesus— that mouth of yours,” in a voice deep with arousal. Chan feels his cock twitch, tightens his grip. “ _Chan_.” 

“C’mon,” Chan whines. He watches intently as Seungcheol’s mouth hangs open on a quiet gasp, eyes fluttering shut. “Get your fucking clothes off— wanna see. Show me hyung’s cock.” 

There’s a few, rushed minutes of Seungcheol rolling away from over Chan to kick his jeans off; Chan takes the opportunity to tug off his own blouse, to unbutton his jeans and attempt to pry the tight denim down his legs. Seungcheol’s freed himself of his briefs — and wow, he’s as big as Chan’s dreamt of, thick and long, cockhead flushed red down to the crown — by the time Chan’s managed to get them mid-thigh. 

Chan sighs in frustration. “Help me,” he whines. The best thing about tight denim is that his ass looks amazing in them. The worst thing about tight denim is that they’re a fucking pain to get off, and Chan’s needed them off ten minutes ago. Seungcheol giggles at his struggle, but comes to the rescue. Who knew this would be a two-person job. 

The second Seungcheol tugs them over his feet and deposits them onto the floor, Chan races to remove his rings while Seungcheol lies back onto the headboard, ears and chest flushed a pretty pink, and waits. Chan has them on his nightstand in record time, and similar to the moment he saw Seungcheol from across the venue, Chan chokes on his spit at the sight of a naked, hard Choi Seungcheol. 

Skin a soft tan, chiseled from his broad shoulders, arms, down to his calves. His teal hair is mussed already, framing the sharp jut of his jaw. Seungcheol’s blinking slowly at him, brown irides eclipsed by his pupils, gaze roaming over where Chan’s fishnet tights taper in at his waist. Then, impossible to be ignored, Seungcheol has a grip around the base of his cock, slit leaking beads of precome. 

Holy fucking shit. 

Chan must’ve said that aloud, because Seungcheol giggles and shakes his head. “You gonna stare at me or take the rest of your clothes off?” His voice is gruff. 

And. He doesn’t have to ask Chan’s dumbass twice; he says, “You’re too fucking hot,” as his weak excuse, but discards the final articles of clothing (the collar pointedly left on), crawls right over to Seungcheol to plop himself into his lap and revel in the _mindblowing_ feeling of hot skin to hot skin. “Hyung. Wow.” Chan grabs each bicep, dick throbbing almost painfully with how Seungcheol flexes. “Your body…” 

Seungcheol holds Chan by the waist with both hands. “I’ll take that as a compliment,” he laughs, shy. “Thank you.” How the fuck he’s shy right now butt-ass naked with Chan’s ass against the thick line of his cock, Chan doesn’t know, but it’s sort of adorable. Seungcheol’s adorable. 

Chan ducks down to plant two, wet kisses on Seungcheol’s mouth, Seungcheol reciprocating, and then moves his kisses down Seungcheol’s jaw, to his throat, where he sucks bruises and listens as Seungcheol’s breath hitches, exhales grow heavier. He scoots back to Seungcheol’s thighs and unceremoniously grabs the shaft of his dick. “Want you in me,” Chan mumbles in between each kiss. “Gonna make me a man?” He thumbs the wet slit; Seungcheol’s hips jump, a _shit_ slipping out. “Want me to choke on your cock?” 

“Chan, shit— your— your _mouth_.” 

Say less. Chan sucks one last, larger bruise into the junction of Seungcheol’s neck and shoulder, then goes to situate himself in between Seungcheol’s legs. He makes sure Seungcheol’s watching — eyelids drooping, face a bloom of pink and red, jaw slack — before grabbing hold of the base of Seungcheol’s cock and feeding the head into his mouth. Seungcheol huffs an approving whine, a hand coming down to cradle the crown of Chan’s head. 

Chan’s going to come untouched and it’s going to be so humiliating that he won’t be able to show his face to Seungcheol ever again. And it’s all because of the heavy weight of Seungcheol’s dick, how Chan’s mouth has to stretch to accommodate the sheer size of him, the bitter taste of his skin and precome. Chan has no qualms about admitting that he’s a bit of a size queen, a bit of a slut; his longest running sexual partners have been with guys that could fuck his voice up for days (requiring him to carefully time his… escapades for when there won’t be another show for weeks). In fact, he’s proud of it, considering how handy it is when there’s someone to impress. 

And that someone is currently Seungcheol. Chan gives him a second performance of the night, maintaining eye contact as bobs up and down the shaft of Seungcheol’s dick, moaning as if he hasn’t tasted anything better all day. The hand on the crown of his head grabs ahold of a chunk of ink black hair, but not tight enough to prevent Chan from working his dick in slow, languid bobs. 

Seungcheol breaks eye contact when his eyes roll back, head knocking onto the headboard. “Oh my _god_ — you’re—“ He loses his train of thought just as Chan stops at his cockhead to lap up beading precome from the slit, then immediately swallows him down again, this time as far as he can make it before he triggers his gag reflex. 

Chan relaxes his throat, vision burning with tears, and then feeds himself the rest of Seungcheol’s dick. Seungcheol makes a strangled noise, tightens his grip in Chan’s hair, hips involuntarily rutting up; that forces the rest of him into Chan’s throat, and the tears that well in his eyes break free. 

“How the fuck can you— ah, fuck, Chan, I can’t—“ Chan pulls up mid-shaft, immediately takes Seungcheol into his throat again. “— _mm-ah_ , ‘m gonna come, already gonna come if you,“ A broken moan interrupts that thought. 

Chan can’t have that. Not yet. He needs to be split open first. 

Seungcheol sighs both in relief and a hint of frustration as Chan pops off of his dick, lets it go. “Wa—one sec—“ Chan says hoarsely. His voice has been through the wringer today. Seungcheol watches in a daze, watches Chan tug open the drawer to his nightstand and produce a condom square and his half-empty bottle of lube. He sits back on his haunches, tossing the condom near his pillows, and pops open the cap of the lube, squeezes a considerable amount onto his fingers. 

Only once he’s returned to straddling Seungcheol’s lap — Seungcheol holding him steady at the waist so he can keep himself up with his clean hand on Seungcheol’s shoulder, his other reaching around to prod at his hole — does he realize how painfully hard his neglected cock is. Of course, perceptive Seungcheol picks up on this and reaches out to give him some relief, but Chan swats him away, returns that hand to Seungcheol’s shoulder. Seungcheol blinks, dazed, at him. 

“Gonna come if y’do that,” Chan says on a raspy laugh. “Wai—“ He manages to slip his index finger inside of himself. Tight. “Jus’ watch. Watch me get ready f’your cock. Hyung, _ah_ —“ 

“So sexy, fuck,” Seungcheol’s tone is impossibly low. 

Chan whimpers as he fucks himself open for a very focused, very receptive one-man audience. Despite trying his damndest to avoid his prostate incase he comes from his own fingers, Chan’s dick twitches, leaks small spurts of precome everytime he’s in to the hilt. That, and being watched hungrily by the man he’s been gagging for long enough to annoy even Jun the Pervert has him constantly on the edge, closer, closer, one finger to three, scissoring, while he gasps and avoids eye contact with Seungcheol. 

If he sees how affected Seungcheol is he may genuinely ruin this and orgasm. 

He has to stop now. Chan holds his breath as he pulls his fingers out. “Okay,” he says. “Condom. Now. Now, now.” He doesn’t give Seungcheol the opportunity to obey instructions, just snatches it up, tears it open, and pumps Seungcheol with his filthy hand a few times. He rolls the condom on for him. 

“Hey,” Seungcheol says. “Slow. Don’t go so—“ Chan lines him up to his hole, lowering until Seungcheol’s cock prods at him. “—no need t’go so fast,” he’s laughing, grips Chan’s waist tighter. “I’m not going anywhere.” 

“No,” Chan agrees. “But I’ve waited too fucking long for this, you goddamn tease.” And he doesn’t let Seungcheol respond before he sits. 

It’s a tight fit, no surprises there. Chan didn’t finger himself open as properly as he should’ve, and Seungcheol is massive, so both together is a recipe for a lengthy, painful drag. “So _big_ ,” Chan whines, chin tipped to expose the long, damp line of his throat. Seungcheol whines in return. “Shit.” He pauses once he’s got the head in to just under the crown, chest heaving and sweat coating his temples, his upper lip. 

He doesn’t start again before squeezing more lube onto his hands, slicking up what remains of Seungcheol’s shaft — which is essentially all of it. “Careful,” Seungcheol bites out despite himself. Chan can feel Seungcheol tense with the strain of not wanting to fuck his hips up and hurt him. “Care—fuh—ful.” 

It takes what seems like forever, but when Chan finally bottoms out, thighs pressed to Seungcheol’s pelvis, he feels like he’s being split open, body taking him so well. Fuck, Chan’s missed this, being full. “Ah, yeah,” Chan says on an exhale, more air than voice. “S’good.” 

_Now_ it’s safe to look at Seungcheol without busting a premature nut. The pain has softened him some. Chan watches Seungcheol watch him with unadulterated lust, grinds his hips and makes both of them moan in tandem. “Tight,” Seungcheol manages. His fringe sticks to his forehead in strings. 

Aside from the slow roll of Chan’s hips, neither move for half a minute or two, allowing Chan to adjust, get accustomed to how well he’s opened for Seungcheol. They breathe in punched-out little sounds, the bustle of an ongoing party white noise in otherwise quiet. 

“You okay?” Seungcheol asks. Every time Chan rolls a certain direction his fingers dig into the skin of his waist, thigh muscles tense. “Too much?” 

Chan snickers, says, “Everything I wanted ’n more,” punctuating it with a lip-bite and narrowed eyes. And he swears on his life that Seungcheol somehow grows harder inside of his tight heat. “Gonna—gonna start moving. Okay?” 

Seungcheol gives an emphatic nod. “Yeah, ‘course, whatever yo— _shit_ —“ 

Chan lifts himself up until only his cockhead remains inside of him, then drops back down in one fell swoop. Seungcheol’s so fucking big that no matter how he orients himself his prostate is being snagged, making his legs quiver, cock leak. “Hyung, oh my god,” he cries. Then, he fucks up and down onto Seungcheol once more. “Seungcheol hyung, wuh—wow, so _good_. Fuck me, fuck me, c’mon—“ 

There’s the explicit consent Seungcheol needs. He immediately takes the reins, vice grip now on Chan’s hips so he doesn’t jostle when he pistons up, sheathing his cock completely inside of Chan. Chan all but sobs, head tipped towards one shoulder and his eyes going missing inside of his skull. Holy _shit_. Seungcheol keeps that harsh, easy rhythm, keeps holding Chan there, right there, forcing him to take whatever he gives. 

“Yeah,” Chan is babbling. He returns to his body just enough to make eye contact with Seungcheol, who’s staring at him like he hasn’t seen anyone prettier before. Like he never knew other people even existed before or after Chan. “Fuck me like ‘m yours, ‘m yours.” He pinches at his own nipple, his cock slapping up against his lower abdomen and creating a wet mess. “Make me a man, hyung.“ 

“This good?” Seungcheol says. “This—this okay?” 

“ _Yeah_.” 

“Yeah?” 

One particularly hard thrust forces tears from his eyes, ruining his eyeliner. Not like he gives a shit. Chan happens to think he looks his best well-fucked, teary and cheeks a mess of dried makeup. And perhaps Seungcheol agrees, because he doesn’t slow down or ask if he’s okay again, only moans Chan’s name in stutters, fingers blanching with how hard he’s holding Chan’s hips. 

There will definitely be bruises there in the morning, and Chan cannot wait to admire them in the mirror. 

Seungcheol fucks him until he can feel his orgasm teetering precariously on the edge, shifting closer and closer but unable to go any further without a hand on his cock. Chan is fine with that, though, wants to prolong this as much as he can. Seungcheol looks fucking gorgeous with his thick, dark eyebrows furrowed, mouth kiss-swollen and blooming red, bruises darkening on his throat and neck junction. Those biceps are driving Chan wild, too, striations deep as he clings to Chan for leverage. And aroused Seungcheol’s moans are so gruff, leaning closer to a growl than anything else. 

Chan wants to brand this sight to the back of his eyelids so he can jerk off to it every night before bed. He doesn’t ever want this to end. “Seung—hyung, y’fuck me so well, fuck, so fuckin’ well.“ 

Seungcheol proceeds to prove him right by shooting forward, bodily moving Chan onto his back on the mattress, cock pulling halfway out before Seungcheol lifts Chan’s legs from under his knees and slides right back in, so deep Chan swears he can feel him in his fucking esophagus. Chan’s mouth falls wide open on a silent scream, hands scrabbling at Seungcheol’s shoulders for purchase. 

He isn’t given the time to adjust to the new angle before Seungcheol is using the strong muscles in his thighs and back to fuck Chan with abandon, Chan being split open over and over and fucking _over_ again. 

Now they’re both moaning loud and shameless, chests heaving, sweat sticking their hair to wet skin. Chan doesn’t have much of any brain functioning left, overwhelmed by constant waves of pleasure, but he manages to hold onto his ability to speak; Seungcheol bends him nearly in half as he chases his own orgasm, is gasping, “Good? Is—is this what you want? Fuh—fuck—Chan—“ against his mouth from where he’s perched over him. 

“Yes,” Chan hisses. He digs his nails into skin, has Seungcheol hiss, too. “Yes, this is wah—this is what I wanted, ah. Come for me. Please — come for me — Oppa _, please_.” 

The reaction is instantaneous. Seungcheol straight-out growls this time and, thrusts losing its rhythm in his pleasure, he sits back onto his haunches and releases one of Chan’s legs to snatch him by the collar’s leash ring. 

Chan doesn’t expect it when Seungcheol forces him up into a sloppy, heated kiss by the ring. One second he’s lying down, the next he’s being held into place with a grip under one thigh, the other holding his upper body up only by the collar. 

For the first time in a very long time, Chan comes untouched. He’s hearing colors and seeing Seungcheol’s rumble of a _Chan_ when he, too, comes, fills up the condom while buried deep inside Chan’s ass. 

And maybe he blacks out, maybe he doesn’t, but when Chan descends from wherever his climax sent him, he’s sprawled across the bed with Seungcheol sitting on the edge, cleaning the come off of his stomach with a wet washcloth. Seungcheol’s still naked, but he’s soft now, and the condom is nowhere to be seen. 

“You okay?” Seungcheol asks him in a whisper. A ghost of a smile touches his swollen lips. 

Chan takes a few seconds to recalibrate. Then, “That was. The best sex I’ve had… probably ever.” 

Seungcheol is still pink from heat, but the color deepens. White teeth, pink gums, he giggles and shakes his head fondly. “You’re okay, alright.”

🎸

In the morning, Seungcheol joins Chan for a shower. They wash one another’s hair, taking mandatory intermissions to kiss. Chan shows off the bruises on his hips, making Seungcheol blush and apologize; Chan fingers the bruises he left on Seungcheol’s neck until Seungcheol whines and swats him away.

Seungcheol begrudgingly puts the clothes he wore yesterday back on. Chan finds him a spare toothbrush and they clean their teeth side by side, watching one another in the mirror when the other isn’t looking. Then Chan tugs on a random black tee and some black jeans he fishes out of his closet. 

He looks up to Seungcheol sitting on the foot of the bed waiting for him. “Hey,” Seungcheol starts. Stops. “So. I wanted to… apologize.” 

Chan blinks at him. “Apologize,” he parrots. 

Seungcheol gives two jerks of a nod, his hands clasped together. 

“It better not be about how you gave me the best dicking of my life,” Chan says. He crosses his arms.

“It’s not—not that,” Seungcheol says on a soft laugh. “Um. Come.” He pats the spot next to him. 

Albeit reluctant, Chan sits. Seungcheol’s troubled breathing isn’t helping much. 

“I was. I was afraid,” Seungcheol says. “That you saw me as, like. As another one night stand.” He averts his eyes to a random spot on Chan’s carpet. “That’s a big reason why I didn’t wanna.“ He gesticulates vaguely. “Have sex.” 

Huh. Well. While Chan’s never seen Seungcheol as a _one_ night stand, he does understand the sentiment. He began this chase on the premise of having easy, zero expectations sex. Though there’s definitely an element of Chan prophylactically treating himself from heartbreak just in case that’s what Seungcheol wanted, too. But now. Now Chan wants. 

“Is that what you wanted?” Seungcheol’s looking at him, uncertain. “Only sex?” 

Chan opens his mouth. Closes it. Opens. Then, “Not with you.” 

“So,” Seungcheol gesticulates again. “What should we call this?” 

Chan wants. The morning after has come and he’s still ravenous. 

He curls his shoulders in. They’re both searching for something in one another’s faces that they can’t even describe. 

“The beginning?” Chan offers. 

Seungcheol takes a moment to consider it. “The beginning? Of what?” 

No matter what, it’ll always ring true: Chan gets what Chan wants. And this is it. This is the beginning of the future. 

Chan leans his side onto Seungcheol’s; Seungcheol instinctually goes around his waist with an arm. “Us,” he says. “Let’s call this the beginning of us. Together.” 

Uncertainty washes off of Seungcheol’s face, giving way for a smile. And, fuck, with the way Chan’s chest fills with helium, he’s in deeper than he thought. “I can do that.” 

Chan presses a kiss to the bruise on Seungcheol’s throat. “Good. Then we’re settled.” Seungcheol curls his fingers around the space above Chan’s knee. 

So much for Lee Jieun levels of unobtainable. 

(Fuck Jun.) 

🎸 

**Author's Note:**

> in summary: otter in a collar. thanks for reading, leaving kudos & commenting!! 
> 
> [my CC if you wanna chat!](https://curiouscat.me/disiIIusioned)


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